The Tales to Fill the Night
by FaylinnNorse
Summary: The desert told her stories. Or perhaps it was just that she knew how to see them, catching on to the way they were hidden, in every intricate pattern of the sand dunes, every sway in a horse's back, every bright-colored bird. 3-shot, 1001 Arabian Nights
1. She

Well, this is a two-shot that was begging to be written, so I wrote it. It is based off of 1001 Arabian Nights. I should have the second part up within a few days. Please R&R.

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The desert told her stories. Or perhaps it was just that she knew how to see them, catching on to the way they were hidden, in every intricate pattern of the sand dunes, every sway in a horse's back, every bright-colored bird. The dunes showed scenes from the past, buildings now in runes, echoes of what was. The horse had carried a rider, far across the edges of the map. The bird had flown high and free, and seen what there is to see of the world.

Her father was the vizier, the highest adviser to the sultan. He loved her more than anything, but he was busy often, with little time to spend with his only daughter. She didn't mind. She ran wild over the palace, through the market and down to the sea, but most of all to the desert.

It was what enthralled her more than anything, the sea of gold, moving in gentle ripples beneath the sapphire sky. The serene quiet and the intense heat. When she stayed long enough, she could see things other people didn't see.

She saw eagles sometimes. The first time she saw one was something she'd never forget. The way it soared high up in the sky, wings spread wide to catch the air. It was free, more free than she was. She wasn't a slave or poor by any means, but she couldn't go wherever she wanted to, see whatever she wanted to see.

It was the first time the desert told her a story, and the first time she'd ever wondered whether or not she was really happy with her life. The eagle had seen battles, spread far and wide. He'd seen a hero singlehandedly fight down his enemy, for valor and for bravery, for all that was good in the world. The eagle had grabbed the hero's flag in his beak and flown through the air with it, waving it high and soaring over the land. It was how the enemy knew they through, how the hero knew he'd won his battle.

She wanted to be an eagle then, or any kind of bird, flying high and turning the tide of the world, changing things somehow. She wanted to soar with no one to stop her. She spread her arms out under the sun and ran fast over the dunes, wishing that someway, somehow, she could turn into a bird.

It didn't happen. But she stayed in her desert, and she watched and she waited. She saw more stories, hidden in cryptic ways through every part of the world, just waiting to be unraveled.

The desert wasn't as barren as everyone said. There were plants in some places, rugged and shrub-like as they might have been. She knew what kind they were and how they'd gotten there. A man had planted them once, as he traveled far over the land, dropping seeds as he went, searching for his lost family. Fruit would grow on them when he'd found them.

It rained once. Big drops of water fell on her, plopping down and sliding over her skin, falling down like a cup was being poured over her head. Flowers came up, growing out of the sand and blooming all around her in bright colors like a rainbow, reaching to the sky like it was all they'd ever wanted in life.

When she listened to the rain, heard the way each drop fell, she realized that it had rained before here, though rarely. Lovers had skipped around the flowers there, and leaned their heads back to catch the rain on their tongues. Their thirst was quenched; it was enough to water to save them from the death they would have faced, lost in the desert.

She wasn't sure how she knew, but she simply did. She didn't know whether the stories were true or not. Some of them seemed far fetched, tales so strange she never could have made them up on her own. They weren't things that really happened in the world, not anymore at least.

She didn't think it mattered much though. Even if they weren't true, she believed in them. They were worth believing in.

She saw wild horses galloping in the desert sometimes. They ran like the wind, hooves pulsing and reverberating as they hit the ground, sweat forming a bright sheen on their coats, kicking up sand as they went. She was struck by the majestic look of them, running their own way, wherever it was they were going. One had carried a rider fast under the moonlight, all the while chased by riders in black, close at their heels throughout night.

They'd gone into the sea then, wading in the shallows first, then farther and farther into the deep. The horse had turned into a great fish and carried its rider to the shore of another land, far, far away. The horse came back after delivering his master to safety, and still ran over the golden sand, wild and free.

She wanted to be a horse then, running like they did for all her days, then perhaps become the wind around their feet, pushing them on and on. That was what happened to horses; it was how they ran so fast. All of their kind that had lived before them became the wind they rode on, that kept them going for so long.

She wanted to be like that, a part of a story, a free spirit, roaming where she would and doing great things. She wanted to be the horse that kicked up the sand, not the single grain of it that was thrown by the winds of chance. She wanted to be something else, something she wasn't.

Then one night the desert told her a different story. It was late, with the moon hanging low over the sand, shining like a pearl formed in one of the clams deep at sea. She'd climbed out of her window to run through the cooler night air, to feel the wind at her back and the sand still warm beneath her toes, to listen.

It was a painful story, of a sultan broken, a heart shattered to pieces. An untrue wife and a hard discovery. And he was hardening, turning against the world. She felt it like a chill, traveling up her spine, and she shivered beneath the pale moon. He was forming a plan in his mind. He would take a wife for a night, and he would kill her in the morning. The next night, he would take a wife, and kill her in the morning, and on and on. Unless one came to him freely.

It wasn't the story she'd climbed out her window for. She wanted excitement, adventure, action. This was something different altogether. It could change her entire life. She shivered again and turned away from the desert, towards the palace. She would go back home, back to bed. The story meant nothing to her.

The wind caught at her back, forcing her to turn. She saw a horse running in the distance and an eagle flying high overhead, and she knew that her own story was being told to her. A girl who watched the world and wanted to be a part of a story, not just an observer. And like the grain of sand that starts a rock slide, she knew what she had to do.

In the morning she met her father in the courtyard, while she watched the bright orange fish flit around in the white marble fountain. She slipped her fingers into the cool water and they swam up to her, nipping lightly at her fingers.

Long ago, a bride had been found for a great sultan, because the fish in the fountain had nipped at her fingers. They weren't afraid of her, accepting her as part of their fountain and so part of their world. The people knew then, that though she was from a far away land and strange to them, she could be accepted as one of them. A fitting story and a good omen, she hoped.

Her father wanted to refuse her, but he didn't. No one else would have come forward, and more and more women would have been killed after just one night with the sultan. There was pain in his eyes as he led her to the palace, to be dressed in the ceremonial clothing and brought before the sultan.

He warned her of the coldness she would find, of the way the man had changed overnight, from a kind and just sultan, to a crazed wild man, hardened and cruel. "And Scheherazade," he said, looking desperately into her eyes, "I love you."

She nodded and smiled through threatening tears, trying to calm her nerves. Another bride had worn these same clothes only a year ago, and only a night ago been charged of infidelity and executed. She only hoped her stories could mend a broken heart.


	2. He

This is actually going to be a three shot, otherwise the second part would be insanely longer than the first. Reviews would be nice.

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His greatest dream was to be great, to be the strongest, the wisest, and the most powerful sultan there ever was. Everything he saw reminded him of his dream. His people, wandering in and out of the city, the great sand dunes that stretched for miles upon miles, and most of all the sun, reaching its peak in the glorious sky. He would be the sun to his people. 

As a child, he had climbed on the bright golden roof of the palace, until he was at the highest point, the great dome in the center. He brandished his play sword there, pulling it slowly from its sheath as if it were a long metal blade. Raising it into the air, high above his head, he claimed the land—no, the world—as his own.

His father had merely laughed and tousled his dark hair, glad to have a son so eager to rule, but also cautious, praying his pride wouldn't be his downfall—or that he would forget it and waste his life in foolishness.

His father died on a warm, clear morning in early spring, on a cooler day, before the sun would become unbearably hot. It was warm and comfortable, and the air felt fresh and clean. The window was wide open to let in the sunlight when the old sultan told his son that it was a good day to die, the best day he could have picked.

He had one regret and one only: that he'd never see his grandchildren. But he'd seen his son's bride and that would suffice; he was certain they would have a long and prosperous life together. Shahryar accepted his father's death as well as a son can ever accept his father's death and went to claim his country, his throne, but most of all, his wife.

He'd met her on one of the hotter days, when the air hung thick in misty shrouds at the beach, but the desert was dry and scorching. There was something off-putting about the day, something that made men restless, their feet and fingertips itching for somewhere to go, something to do. He went to the marketplace.

He'd often thought that the day was pure fate, meant to bring the two of them together, for when he saw her, he was entranced. She danced in the marketplace, in the center of a large crowd. He had to fight to reach her, pushing and shoving past those in his way, but it was well worth it once he saw her.

Her black hair shone like a raven's feather in the sunlight, and her skin was a golden-brown, kissed by the sunlight. She wore a dress in rich, dark tones. There was red like blood, green like the far away forests in books he'd read, and blue like the darkened night sky. It flowed around her, spinning out in circles as she spun, arms wide and flowing like water. She glanced at him after a moment, with dark eyes and a soft, knowing smile curled onto her lips as she stepped and spun again.

He stared, a fire lighting in him like nothing he'd ever known before. He knew she was the only thing he wanted. Even if he never ruled his people, never was the greatest sultan, he'd still be happy if he only had her.

When she was finished, some tossed coins in her direction, while others spat at her feet, and he knew she was far below him in class, but he didn't care. He merely walked up to her and started a conversation, asking her of her name, her life, anything about her that she would tell him.

She answered him, seemingly shy at first but gradually growing bolder, her eyes and entire being seeming to light under his brazen attentions. When she kissed him at sunset by the misty ocean, he asked her to come to the palace with him and marry him, to be with him forever. She said yes without a hesitation.

The people were appalled at his choice, marrying a low class girl, one who would dance in the streets for all eyes to see, only for a few coins, for money. Gradually they came to accept her as they came to realize that they had to; she wasn't going away, and the two were married with all pomp and circumstance in the center of the city for all to see.

In the days that followed his father's death, she became everything to him. She was always there when he needed her, to whisper sweetly in his ear, telling him that he was the greatest, giving him a winning smile, dancing in the sunlight. He never grew tired of her dancing.

On a dark night, he wandered the looming hallways, unable to sleep, unsure of what troubled him. He paused in the courtyard when he saw her lithe form, twirling, spinning, floating under the moonlight. He smiled lightly, then stopped as he saw another form. There were arms around her waist and hers around the intruder's neck, and then they stopped dancing and both their arms and their lips were locked in a tight embrace.

His heart broke that night as he had them both sentenced to death, unwilling to even hear a defense or hold a fair trial. He, the sultan, had seen them with his own two eyes. There was nothing more to be said. He locked himself in his quarters, and they seemed darker and heavier than ever before.

First he was devastated, feeling tears pour down his cheeks as he shook with sobs, remembering the day they'd met and his great love for her. Then as his tears dried, he grew angry, clenching his fists and pounding them into anything that seemed to be in his way. He remembered the day he'd claimed the world as his own and hated his wife for daring to defy someone as great as him. Then, gradually, he grew colder, harder, turning his back against the world, as it had turned its back on him.

He needed a new wife, but he knew now that women were fickle creatures, and couldn't be trusted. He would marry, yes, but for one night. In the morning she would die, before she had the chance to be untrue. He would do the same thing, night after night, morning after morning. Unless...unless one came of her own choice. Then only she would die, and it would end with her. This was his resolve, and he threw open the door of his chamber and walked outside, not feeling the warm sun on his face or the hard wind at his back.

He had not been expecting any woman to come of her own free will, but come she did, the daughter of his own vizier. She was slightly younger than he and smaller, her head barely reaching his shoulder where his first wife had matched him in height. She was gentle and spoke her vows in a soft voice, but there was strength in her, too, as she met his eyes and looked deeply into them, as if trying to draw him out of the dark depths.

He looked away, and they retired to his apartments. She asked to tell him a story. He nearly snorted. He was no child; he didn't need a bedtime story to listen to, and it hardly seemed like something she would want to spend her last night alive doing. Still, she seemed perfectly earnest so he waved his hand and let her tell her tale, prepared to doze off in the middle of it.

Her story caught his attention, though, and held it. It was an odd tale, of a prince who was struck in the head and forgot who he was. He woke by his throne, but he didn't understand, so he left the palace and went another way to seek his fortune. He traveled far and wide, eventually forgetting that he had even been trying to find out who he was. Instead he looked for riches, until he was the richest and most powerful man in the world. He was the prince that he had been, but he wasn't satisfied, because he remembered at last that he had no recollection of who he was.

A servant came to him then and told him—but her voice faltered and broke off in the middle of her sentence as her gaze flicked outside and then to his face. He felt like a sweet melody had stopped suddenly or warring armies had frozen, just before the tips of their swords touched each other.

He looked at the sun rising in the east, its light filtering through the window, and he remembered his resolve; it was her time to die. But the story; it wasn't finished yet. He wanted to hear the rest of it, though he felt foolish recalling how he'd scoffed at her last night.

She was looking at him, a question in her eyes.

"I won't kill you," he spoke at last, "not yet."

She nodded and he heard her breath come out in a rush, like a great wind. She seemed to have been holding it in, afraid of what would happen next maybe, afraid she'd never breathe again.

He looked at her in surprise, and he felt like he was seeing her for the first time. He realized then that she was just a girl, just another person like him. She'd come forward to die willingly so others wouldn't, but that didn't mean she wasn't frightened. She seemed more vulnerable now, more real, as he knew he could take her life away in an instant.

He asked her to finish the story and she did, on into the morning and past noon and he learned of how the prince recalled his past and remembered his pride, but not without a cost. His father had died while he was gone, his wife moved on and his children grown, all without him there. When he couldn't take the pain anymore, he became an eagle and soared high in the sky, easing his pain with new heights and perspectives he'd never seen before. But he watched over his country, still, always watching the different rulers, guiding them so they would never forget their place, as he had.

When she was finished, he was silent for a long time, before walking out of the room into his own courtyard, to be alone. The pain and the tears in the story reminded him too well of his own pain. It touched some part of him, somehow, some part that wanted to recoil, but it didn't, and he was glad he'd listened to it.

When nightfall came, she told another tale, and this one seemed somehow entwined with her own spirit, rather than his. Her eyes lit as she spoke and her hands gestured wildly, flying in front of her, and her voice smiled with passion and longing.

The story was of a girl who couldn't see, but she could listen, and every day she would put her ear down into the desert sand and listen to reverberating hoof beats, of horses flying over the ground. She knew that one day they would come to her carry her far away, though no one but her believed it. Then one day she got lost and was beaten by thieves in an alleyway, and her ears were deafened. She had no way to listen now, no way to know when her horses would come for her.

The sunlight came up then and again he said he wouldn't kill her, and she could finish the story. It was an intriguing tale, but almost more than that was watching her, the way her eyes were bright and dancing in the dim firelight and the way her voice rose and fell with the excitement and drama.

The girl was broken in her deafness. She stood in the desert, weeping with a knife in her hand, ready to take her own life, but then she felt the wind at her back, sharp and biting, but blowing free and wild. In the wind, she could feel the horses, their spirits running there all together, with swift legs and strong backs. She found the mane of one and got onto its back and they rode far, far away, and the girl was never seen again, but everyone knew she was free.

Her watched her for a moment when she was through, thinking. She wanted to be free; he could understand that much, but why she'd come to him then was something he could not fathom. There was no freedom for her here, only death. But he hadn't killed her yet, and she'd bought herself another day.


	3. They

It went on like this, night after night. She told him stories, but they would never finish by morning, never in time for him to kill her, so he'd put it off, another night, another tale. Her stories hurt him, often. The stories of men who searched the world but never found what they were looking for, or the ones that did. There was so much life in her tales; the essence of it was packed in along with the sweat and the tears and the blood. It was so much so that he almost felt that they were living things themselves, growing, changing, being. 

Most of the stories were targeted at him, he knew that, but he didn't mind. They had the effect he knew she wanted, reaching into his soul, making him think about himself, about his life. They were good tales, though, whatever their purpose.

Then there were the simpler, shorter ones, about odd things: a jewel and the odd bargain it had been bought with, the feather of a bird and how it had been plucked off by a man with an arm that could reach all the way into the sky.

Then there were the stories that were plain and simply her. There were horses in them often and eagles and always freedom, freedom to run, freedom to be, freedom to have your own story. He liked watching her when she told those. She acted different, more alive and wild, and he could always imagine her being in the story, riding off on a strong, swift horse or flying along with the eagles.

They started talking, during the daytime. She told him of the first time she saw an eagle how she'd run with her arms spread open, trying as hard as she could to turn into one, and he told her of the day he'd tried to claim the entire world as his own.

She'd laughed then and asked him why he wasn't acting on his claim. He'd laughed as well, but afterwards had stopped, thinking about it. He remembered his dreams, all the wondrous things he'd sworn he would do, all of them forgotten after he met his first wife.

They walked through the marketplace together once, and he watched as she stopped to hold a child that wouldn't stop crying. She quieted him, bouncing him on her hip and whispering a story, something about a plain bird that once saw a rainbow and wanted to find it. The bird flew all around the world until it reached the rainbow, then flew through it and changed color, splotched with every color you could imagine.

He watched her carefully, surprised that she would stop and care for the boy. He was dirty and she was getting dirty, and he never would have done it. The only time he'd paid attention to anyone in the street was...his wife, and she'd been perfectly clean...and dancing in the middle of the street like she had no shame.

It struck him for the first time that maybe he'd been wrong in marrying her, maybe she really was low class and crude like everyone had said. Maybe he'd been driven by something other than love, something more like lust and rash decisions. The thought still hurt, though, remembering the happy times they'd had, holding her in the warm sun, talking on the sea shore, just living, together.

As they continued walking, he told Scheherazade about how he'd met his wife and she laughed at the grand impulsiveness of it all, him sweeping the street girl off her feet, just like in a story. It didn't end like a story, though, not a happy one, not even a satisfying one, and she sobered at that, looking up at him with her soft, dark eyes.

She told him a story then, about a man who lost his house and his children and wife all in a great fire that had torn over his land. The man curled into a ball on the ground, watching the red flames above him, trying to ignore the world, crying. His tears soaked him in water, keeping the fire from burning his skin.

For a long time, he sat alone through hot sun and cold rain, but he wouldn't look at the world. He believed the fire was still burning, and it would get to him and burn him still. He wanted to stay there with his tears and sorrow, but finally a friend came from the village and forced him to get up and look at the world, no longer charred by the fire, but turning green and lush again. The man looked up at the blue sky, no longer red with flames and he was happy, happy just to be alive.

Shahryar wasn't sure how he felt about the story. He knew it was about moving on, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to move on. It was hard to turn away, hard to believe that the fire was gone and the sky was blue again, harder than he would think.

Their lives went on, night after night after night. It was always the same when they retired, a story that lasted past morning. She'd always stop somewhere at the climax and look at the sun coming in the window and he would always tell her that he wouldn't kill her—not yet, and she would nod and finish the tale.

They'd sleep a bit during the day and he would attend his duties and she would do what she wished and in the afternoon they would walk together, in the marketplace, or by the ocean, or in the desert. They talked, about many, many things.

He asked her where she got all of her stories. She shrugged and said that the desert told her, that she could see them, in everything, hidden in strands of color and light and patterns. They were everywhere, but it was the desert that taught her to see them.

She told him that she wanted to be in a story rather than just telling one, and he told her that he felt like he was in a story and wanted out. She laughed and they kept walking on as they talked more.

In the pale, dusky lighting of twilight, he realized that she was beautiful. It was different from his first wife, though. She wasn't as striking or as flauntingly beautiful. It was a softer look, something in her eyes and her laugh and her smile, something that made him smile and watch her quietly, though not stopping to stare

He would have lost track of the time they'd been together, if it wasn't for the record the vizier kept written on a scroll in the throne room in red, scrawling script. He added a mark for every day that went by without her death sentence paid.

On the one thousandth night she told him a story about a man who spent all his time searching for a genie he'd seen once, watching him elusively from a corner, before she slipped away into the air. She was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen and he wanted her, more than he wanted anything. He searched the world for her, but she was nowhere to be found.

At last, he returned home to his wife who had been waiting for him. When he embraced her, he realized for the first time the striking resemblance she had to the genie woman he'd searched so long for. He wept then, for the years he'd spent searching for something that had all the while been right within his reach. His wife wiped away his tears, though, and told him of how long she'd been waiting for him to come to her and they moved on together, in love.

She'd watched him carefully as she told the story, with something indefinable in her eyes, brightening them, bringing them alive the way they were alive when she told him of horses and of freedom.

Throughout the next day he thought of her story and of her eyes, watching him and her voice, talking softly to him. He thought she might love him. Gradually, he began to realize that, whether or not she loved him, he loved her, more than anything. It wasn't the immediate, crazed passion he'd felt the moment he saw his first wife, though, and it wasn't easy. Every day he still had to try to trust her and try to stop comparing her every move to his first wife.

But he loved her. That much he was sure of. With her stories and her eyes, she'd found him buried deep inside himself and dragged him back out into the sunlight. And in the sunlight she'd been capturing his heart, softly, slowly, from the moment they'd first met.

That night, the one thousand and one night since they'd married, she told him a story, the way she always did. It wasn't a remarkable tale, though, and he could tell that her heart wasn't in it. It was just another adventure, a hero, saving the day, sweeping a lady off of her feet, but when she told of the hero, she stopped and let out a sigh.

"What is it?" he asked, looking at her with concern. She never stopped telling her stories ever; her life depended on the fact that she kept going. Every day, still, he told her that he wouldn't kill her—yet. If she had nothing more to say, it could end her life.

She sighed again, glancing at him. "It's—it's nothing really."

He watched her, not saying anything, waiting for her to tell him. She would tell him, she always told him if anything was bothering her; he just had to wait.

"It's just—I always thought that some hero would come and sweep me off my feet, or at least, I hoped he would or...something..."

He wanted to be her hero then, but he wasn't entirely sure how to tell her. He wasn't eloquent with the words the way she was, and he knew no stories to tell his feelings with. So he just leaned forward and kissed her. He felt her start but then give in, kissing him back with soft, warm lips.

When they broke away at last he leaned against her still, pressing his forehead to hers, his arm tightly around her waist. They were breathing in time together, and he could feel her heartbeat against his chest.

"I'm not ever going to kill you in the morning," he whispered, raising his head above hers, to kiss her forehead softly.

She leaned in to him and he felt her giggle, shaking in his arms. "I know," she said moving away just enough to be able to look him in the eye. "And I finally found my story to be in, my freedom. With you," she put her slipped her small hand into his larger one, lacing their fingers together and held onto his hand, squeezing it tightly.

He nodded, glad that she was happy, and that he was happy. She'd brought him back to life and reminded him of his dreams, of his pride, of he who he was. "And I'm going to be the greatest sultan now, for my people."

"You're becoming that already," she said, whispering the words, like she was telling a secret. "And you're a better man than you ever were."

He kissed her again and held onto her tightly. In the morning, her pardon was written in the throne room, on the same sheet that had marked the nights—all one thousand and one of them, and all one thousand and one tales. They walked through the courtyard together, the sultan and his wife. She, who was told stories by the desert, and he, who listened.

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The end! So tell me, did you like it? After I wrote it, I realized that it might have been better if I had both their POVs in the last part, but I already wrote it from his, so I didn't really want to go back...I'm really not sure if the last two parts were as good as the first, but hopefully you enjoyed it all. Tell me in a review! 


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